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deader is a perfectly sound construct in English, despite "logic" LOL. See? https://www.deepl.com/en/translator#en/de/a dead star a deader star But thanks for taking the time to reply

I'm starting to work on a Peter Baum poem titled "Ein toter Stern." My question is on how to know in this case if toter is a straightforward adjective ("dead"; "deceased"; and so forth), or a comparative adjective ("deader"; "more decayed"; and so forth). It seems to me I often encounter comparative adjectives in German-language poetics in places where an English-speaking poet would default to a superlative instead. Like "Eine längere Reise" in German might best be rendered in English as "The Longest Journey" instead of a longer journey. Any help with toter in the context of Baum's title would be greatly appreciated

. Regen Feiner Regen lag vor dem Fenster. Es war wie das Rauschen ferner Meere. So tief träumt es sich in dunklen Zimmern, vor denen Regen niederfällt. All die erleucheten Fenster, die einsamen Augen von Häusern, die in das Dunkel sehnen. Weit hinter den hohen Wäldern, die sich beschatten, hinter den Augen der Häuser – hockt ein Weib – mein Gram. Ich liebte diesen bleichen, zusammengekauerten Gram mit den großen Abgründen im Auge – seiner mütterlichen Grausamkeit. Ich hatte Heimweh nach ihm. Vor Zeiten verließ er mich. Nun war ich lange einsam. Der Pfiff einer Lokomotive entfernte sich – weithin. Immer ferner das Rauschen. Ich strich mit der Hand durch die Luft. Ich wollte streicheln – meine Hände suchten schwarze Haare. Leere lag um mich. Da war ich Regen, der niederweinte – nur großes Weinen. Und es war wie ferne Rauschen fremder Meere. --Peter Baum, 1902 Precipitation A slender rain lies behind the glass. It's like the murmur of secluded seas. So deep it is to dream in darkened rooms, when the rain begins to descend. All the illuminated windows, the forlorn sockets of house-eyes, now yearn into the darkness. Far beyond the towering forests, which shade themselves, beyond the gazes of housetops – sits a mate – my grief. I once loved the cause of this bleached out, ever-crouched grieving with the fathomless abyss in his eye – his mothering type of cruelty. But I'm homesick yet for him. Though he left me long ago, Now I feel lonelier still. The shriek of a locomotive moved in the distance – away. The murmur grew quieter. I skimmed with my hand through the air. I sought to caress – my hands searched in vain for his raven hair. All lay desolate. Thus I became mere precipitation – only tears crying. And like the distant murmur of stranger seas.

Zug is a fascinating word in German. Meanings range from "puff" (like a locomotive), to wanderer, to tractor as a verb. Appears in Zugvogel as migratory bird. In the senses of traveler, migration, one a bit lost, etc., I wonder if way back in the mists of language trees, Zug was related to the familiar-in-English Latinate prefix fug. As in fugitive.

Thanks for your comments and support, dear friend

Was working on this Peter Baum poem this morning. Ich wandre und kenne nicht Zeit noch Raum Und lächle ins Leben, als sei es ein Traum, In wehende Gärten, die Dämmerung umflicht – Ich staun‘ wie ein Kind in das zitternde Licht – Sie sagen, ich altere Jahr um Jahr, Mir welke die Wange, mir bleiche das Haar, Am Ende des Weges, da harre der Tod, Weiß nicht, ob er lächelt, weiß nicht, ob er droht. So wandre ich, wandre ich Nacht und Tag Wolken, Sternen und Shcatten nach. https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n75/mode/2up ------------------------------------------------------------------------- I drift, aware neither of space nor time, Smiling into life's visage as but a dream, Into billowing gardens where twilight enfolds – Wonder-struck like a kid in the braiding light – I'm told I grow older year after year, While my bloom dwindles and hair turns silver pale, And at the end of the line, they say Death waits, But I'm unaware if he smiles on me, or hates. So, I drift, drifting both through night and day In wakes of clouds, stars and shadow.

A recondite selection perhaps, but the recordare of Salieri's requiem should not be missed

A favorite of lyricists and song stylists for decades

I've been working with verse penned by another early German Expressionist poet, Peter Baum. His life was cut short by WW1, and his posthumously published "Trench Verses" (Berlin 1916) contain some of the best soldier-poems of the war. Here is an earlier work of his: Zugvogel Flüchtig, Einem Wandervogel gleich, Aber unstäter, Nirgends heimisch, Schweift meine Seele Von Gestad zu Gestade. Keine Blume, Deren Duft sie berauschte, Kennt sie mit Namen. Nichts weiß sie, Als ein Märchen aus der Kindheit, Ein paar Lieder, Wenige Worte der Denker Und albdrückende Sagen Von Sünde und ewiger Vergeltung; Halb wissend, Sehnsüchtig, Voll von Träumen und süßen Klängen! O wäre sie dem Schwan gleich Gesegelt Auf dem Teich ihrer Heimat, Dann klänge ihr vertraut das Lied der Nachtigall ihres Busches; Dann kennte sie auch die Tiefen ihres Teiches, Dann heiße sie nicht die Unwissende. Flüchtig, Einem Wandervogel gleich Schweift meine Seele Von Gestad zu Gestade. --Peter Baum, 1902 https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n83/mode/2up ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Bird on the Wing Nomad, My soul's not unlike a bird Of passage, yet one Lost, unstatic, Native to nowhere, Flitting from shore to shoreline. Poor feathered thing, She has no name for the wild flowers Making her drunk. She knows naught But a nursery rhyme for kids, Various tunes, A few words from mankind's great minds, And the damn-fool, sickening Myth of sin and deathless retribution; But half-awake, She's full of longing, Stuffed with daydreams and harmless music. O would she'd been born a swan, There to swim In a pool of home waters, Where she'd the melody of her frontiers' nightingale recognize; Where she'd be familiar with the depths of her pond And could not rightly be called ignorant. Nomad, My soul's not unlike a bird Of passage, yet one Flitting from shore to shoreline.

Thanks, Parker. This poem hinges on that fact that Bedienung is able to stand for both "service" and "server" And as for inflation . . . well, things have changed a lot since 1928 when this gem was first published, lol

In the Bakery Café When your fine tenor lists costs at the table next, For those diners who are in a hurry, It's usually phrased just like a question; You state only the amount Confidently; but then when listing the goods on offer, The lilt rises at the end, While the central emphasis Lingers on from the strain: "Forty cents, for the coffee . . . ? Thirty cents, for the cake . . . ? Twenty cents, for the whipped cream . . . ? Ten cents, for the service . . . ?" Do you expect objections at the cost of things, For those prices that are reasonable? Or, O wise little man, do you know without thinking That only the amount's set? In your central emphasis, Perhaps this quaking, searching, breathing, rising lilt means You question which existential sweets you'll willing to offer up, Leaving me a broken platonic thought – the amount, to fork over: "Forty cents for the coffee? Thirty cents the cake? Twenty cents the whipped cream? Ten cents, for the server . . . ?"

I've been working on translating poems by Konrad Weichberger. I made the plunge and bought his collected poems and biography from Germany. Anyway, I thought I'd share one translation in which I think I managed to captured the beauty of the original. This poem is also in the style for which Weichberger is best-remembered; emotional moments captured in vignettes. Vollmond Wir assen Pfannekuchen Mit Zwetschenmus gefüllt, Ich und du, Und machten Unsinn dazu. Im Walde, über den Buchen Sah’n wir den Vollmond sich heben, Gross, rot und dunstumhüllt, Halb rollen und halb schweben. Ach, und das hat dir Spass gemacht! Du schnitt’st ihm eine Fratze, Und hast ihn so betracht’t und hast gelacht, Und gemeint, von dem lustigen Leben bei Nacht Hätt‘ er schon ‘ne gehörige Glatze; Und säh‘ doch sonst so rot und frisch – Ich fühlte gleich moralisches Plus, Und fuhr mir durch meine dicken Haare Dreimal Mit einem wahren Hochgenuss – Und du, du setztest dich auf den Tisch Und sahst hinab in das wunderbare Waldgeränderte Wiesental Mit dem gewundenen Fluss In dem der Mond sich zitternd widerstrahlte. Du sagtest, das hätte keinen Zweck; Er wär‘ ein rechter alter Geck – Aber während ich die Zeche bezahlte, Blicktest du immer noch still hinaus in die Wälder – Ach, und das was damals. (1902) Bald-Faced Moon Out and about, we ate crêpes Filled with blue damson jam, You and me, Laughed a lot, and horsed around. Over the woods, above the beech, We watched a full moon rising slow, Large, red and veiled by clouds, Half-wheeling; only half-poised. Tickled, oh, that did it for you! You scowled in his direction, Leered, pulled a face and laughed at old-man moon, Stating you thought from his heady, active nightlife, He should indeed be a bald-headed coot But looked ruddy and fresh instead – Given instant moral advantage, You watched as I ran fingers through thick hair Three times With a matchless, lofty pleasure – After, you sat atop the table To gaze, drawn-kneed, across the enchanting Forest-edged vale of meadowlands Above which the clearing moon trembled In the waters of the aimless river below. You said you thought it was no use now; He was a right old playboy after all – Yet, while I went to settle our tab, You still gazed into the woods that way – And oh, that did it for me. (apparently in German culture, "full moon" is a slang synonym for bald-headed)